


An Arctic Crystal

by silverotter1



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, D/Hr Advent 2011, Dramione Advent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverotter1/pseuds/silverotter1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amid the cruel beauty of the Highland winter at Hogwarts castle during her 7th year, Hermione has a somber Holiday with an unhappy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Arctic Crystal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2011 D/Hr_Advent  
> Prompt: Icicles

  


“Then there you lie like one warm spark in the heart of an Arctic crystal.” ~ Herman Melville

 

The smattering of iced snow tinkled on the diamond shaped window panes of Hermione Granger’s tower dormitory like tiny silver sleigh bells. It was Christmas Holiday. Hardly any students had stayed over, choosing instead to spend time with their kin. She was alone here. At least that’s how she felt. It was by necessity that Harry and Ron were hunting the evil Voldemort, while she had stayed behind. It was her seventh year at Hogwarts and this was not how she’d envisioned it all of those years ago when she first arrived, wide-eyed, so naive. How could she have known the task that lay before her this year?

She inhaled deeply, snuggled further under her down bed coverings. She hoped Harry and Ron were warm, wherever this early morning hour found them. Her own room was bone-chillingly cold. The fire had gone out. She herself had forbidden the Castle Elves to wait on her over this Holiday, but even she had to admit it’d been nice to wake to a toasty room. Hermione gripped the wand from under her pillow and steeled herself to the inevitable cold blast that would chill her when she reached out to ignite levitated logs in the hearth.

She shivered. “ _Ingniteo_ ”, she whispered into the darkened stillness. Her breath rose in smoky wisps, ascended in curls, and disappeared. The flames burst forth, lighting the room with an orange-gold cast.

“ _Calorium_.” The warming spell comforted her at once. She folded her reed-thin arms atop the duvet. Her intensity had distracted her from nourishment most of the time. Having grown about three inches in the last year hadn’t helped her either. She wasn’t tall, only average. She wasn’t a beauty, only average. Her figure wasn’t striking, only average. However, when it came to smarts, Hermione was anything but average.

Staring into the dancing flames, she contemplated her plan for the day. She’d be meeting him for brunch—he was one to sleep in, while she was up at the crack of dawn. Her busy mind wouldn’t allow her more than five hours of rest before the insistent thoughts roused her from slumber. The thoughts that constantly swirled in her mind were demanding and persistent, but she’d learned to master them by organizing them; categorizing them; acknowledging them politely and putting them aside, promising that when she needed them she’d come for them. They obeyed her in this way.

It was her task to keep tabs on Draco Malfoy this year.

He’d been one of the students who returned as well, and Harry had insisted Hermione keep an eye on him. She’d agreed only after a lengthy and heated debate. She felt underutilized in this task, but realized soon enough there was no other choice.

Predictable as the chore may have seemed, what came as a surprise was Malfoy himself. She’d spent weeks grooming him, palavering him. He was an arrogant ass to be sure, but intelligent nonetheless. He’d been wary of her at first, of course, but Hermione was a smart girl. She’d deceived him, made him think she was desperate to be rid of Harry and his Messiah complex. She’d twisted a tale of discord and friction between the Gryffindor trio and eventually Draco relented. She spun a tale of fear on her part and a longing for protection if the wizard world fell under a new regime. In return she’d offer Draco any information he wanted.

Draco seemed pleased by this offer and had taken her on as his pet project so to speak. He seemed bored, seeing not many Slytherins had returned to Hogwarts. He’d proceeded to justify the stance of his fanatical father. Hermione had humbled herself so many times she’d needed calming tonics and relaxation spells just to keep up the ruse.

She remained quite when he’d said, “I guess it’s not your fault really that your blood is impure. Your magic is good—better than any Mudblood I’ve ever known. Really just as good as anyone in my House.” And he thought he was complimenting her!

She narrowed her eyes at him and smirked. “Oh, is that so?” She’d said it teasingly even as her stomach turned.

Draco had taken her chin in his cool palm, (always he had cool palms while her own hands where always hot, very nearly sweaty), and he’d grinned. His intense grey eyes bore into hers. “But I’ll make you better. Once you’ve shown me you’re truly worthy, I’ll share with you the true secrets of magic.” Then he kissed her lips.

At this remembrance Hermione shut her eyes against the too-bright flames. This is where the dilemma came for her. She enjoyed his kisses.

She swallowed, allowed the memory to play out in her meticulous mind. A soft brush of his wide, thin lips at the corner of her mouth, and then he ran his hand that had cradled her chin along her jaw to the back of her head. He sank his long fingers into her hair, their welcome coolness like a balm on her scalp, and pulled her closer, pressing his mouth fully upon hers, his teasing tongue exploring the seam of her lips until he claimed what he most wanted. She would open for him with a tiny grasp, inhaling his taste eagerly. He knew of her eagerness, she was sure. His mouth was soft, and pliant.

But let there be no doubt who gave and who received. For when desire stirred in her belly, and the need for more came to her; when she was about to wrap her arms about his neck and deepen the kiss, he retreated.

This small thing always left her disappointed and longing for more. She vaguely wondered if it was a trick. Probably so, but what she really wondered was if he was playing her, too.

Hermione snorted. She knew he didn’t have many followers left. Those of his House who remained weren’t “worthy to grovel at his feet” (Draco’s words, not hers). So, he’d made her his prize. Her own Housemates had scorned her—labeled her a traitor. It had gone better than she’d anticipated. So now she was Draco’s pseudo-girlfriend, the perfect way to keep tabs on his every move.

The problem was he didn’t seem to be doing much of anything—only bolstering about, spouting grandiose notions of how a new day was soon to come.

She thought maybe she was losing her mind, losing herself, but she began to enjoy the time she spent with him. It was almost a sick admiration of his pompous splendor. He was handsome, charismatic, self-assured, and he wanted her. It was heady stuff for a seventeen-year-old witch.

***

At brunch, Hermione found it disconcerting that she enjoyed the conversations between Draco and herself. Conversations that didn’t involve the heavy politics of Mudbloods versus Purebloods that is. She found he was an avid reader, as was she, and he had, in fact read many Muggle classics. He admitted to having sneaked the books behind his elitist parents’ backs.

“Is that Pureblood rebellion?” she teased him, smiling genuinely.

“I suppose, yes.” He winked.

“So you’re just a rebel… in Death Eater clothing.” She laughed.

“Watch yourself, Ms. Granger. I’ve been know to cast a dark magic spell or two.”

 _How odd_ , Hermione thought as she took a bite of lunch. _I’m sitting here, in the Slytherin Dungeon common room, having the oddest conversation with Draco Malfoy, yet it feels entirely natural._

A couple of fifth years ambled in, paying no attention to them.

Hermione eyed them, always taking in her surroundings. Something else had caught her eye. A huge evergreen holiday tree in the corner of the dungeon was entwined with silver and green fairy lights and crystal icicles. The ornaments were all magical objects d'art such as tiny bubbling cauldrons, zooming brooms, miniature wands emitting tiny green sparks and the like. It was marvelous. She stood and approached the tree. There were miniscule potion books, and other equally charming items. There was a tiny Mirror of Erised, or at least what Harry had described it to be if her memory served her. She looked curiously into the smooth reflective service no bigger that a hand held vanity mirror.

Eyes appeared. Terrible, cold grey eyes within a cold grey iron mask.

_Draco. Have you broken the Mudblood yet? We need her near death to lure out the Chosen One._

The words weren’t spoken, but impressed upon her brain nonetheless.

She gasped and stepped back. Directly into Draco.

His hands came up and gripped her arms. “What is it? What’s startled you so?”

“N-n-nothing.” She grappled with the shock and pushed it away. “I just was worrying about what you said before… about a new day to soon come.”

Draco smirked confidently. “I told you, with what you know of Potter and with my protection, you’ll be fine.”

“How can you be sure?” she probed. “I’m just a Muggleborn witch, and who knows what Voldemort will do?” She pressed on. “Do you or your father have any idea what he may do to Muggles and Muggleborns?”

“Don’t worry about it, Granger. You won’t have to worry about that kind of thing— now that you’ve switched sides.” He glared at her a moment, almost as if he was challenging her, then smiled.

It was then that she began to suspect strongly that this was an act for him too, and she wondered if he knew she was faking it as well. _What now?_ she mused.

He slid his hands round her waist. “I think that we should go somewhere more private. I’d like to show you something.” He led her in the direction of his dorm.

Hermione stiffened. Her wand was safely in the pocket of her jeans. “What is it?”

Draco only chuckled.

***

Once inside his room, he led her to a small ornate desk. It had a key lock with a fold down table, which revealed small slots for paper and ink pots. Atop the desk sat a tall glass-door book case. Inside were some of Hermione’s favorite books.

There were works by Tolstoy, Kipling’s Jungle Books, Boris Pasternak’s “Dr. Zhivago”, even Melville’s “Moby Dick”.

She couldn’t help but smile. The sight of these Muggle books comforted her, and was like a glimpse into her own bedroom from home. A home that was now gone, maybe forever.

“Draco! You’ve read all these?” She knew of course he must have, but the comment bubbled up from her anyway. She laughed. “May I?”

“Why do you think I brought you in here?” He grinned. He removed a key from a small brass urn to unlock the desk cupboard. Then he left her to it, flopping himself down onto his big four-poster—which to Hermione, seemed bigger than the average students bed.

Hermione grabbed the Melville, but not before noticing a diary tucked neatly on its back beside the other books. Diaries are the only kind of books with little locks on them. She made a mental note about the desk key and the diary, ambled to where Draco lounged and sat gingerly on the edge of his bed. “Here’s something for you to think about…..”

“You’re going to read to me are you?” He propped himself on an elbow.

She looked over her shoulder. “I am.”

“Then get over here.” He pulled her down next to him cradling her head under his arm.

She looked sideways over at him, blushing for sure.

“Cozy, yeah?” And he laughed at her embarrassment.

Hermione rolled her eyes and relaxed. It was kind of nice. She found Draco always smelled of a crisp fall day—the pungent woodsy sent of the forest. And of cinnamon. She thought it must be those Muggle sweets he was always popping.

She searched a moment for the quote she wanted.

“Read, woman,” he instructed, sinking his face into her copious brown waves.

“Right. Here it is. Just listen…” ‘We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing—

“Hmmm, out of bed clothes?” He nipped the tip of her ear.

“Shut it and listen. ‘…seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself.”

“Granger, I think we contrast quite nicely…”

She ignored him this time and kept reading. “If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm.”

She pause to smile to herself then went on, “For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich, but the blanket between you and your snugness, and the cold of the outer air. Then there you are like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal. “

She looked at Draco whose face betrayed no emotion.

After a tense few seconds he asked, “Are you my one warm spark, Hermione?” His honest query was such that she knew this was truly _him_ asking her. Not the pretending him asking the pretending her.

“I could be.”

Draco waved his hand and the hearth fire went cold. He waved twice more, and the room chilled considerably. She began to shiver.

“Let’s test the theory, shall we? Here,” he said. “Get under the covers with me.”

A few minutes ago she would’ve protested, but in this moment she did as he asked.

He was deliciously warm and solid and she was feeling very comfortable and safe. Even as she felt his body heat swathe her in warmness, she could feel the chill of the cooled room reddening her nose.

He kissed the tip of it, his warm lips a contrast, and indeed, Melville was correct in his supposition, so eloquently stated by Ishmael.

Draco clasped her hand closest to his. His hand was cool. “Your hands are only ever warm,” he said. “They make me feel warm, just to hold them.”

“Deliciously and unmistakably warm?” she breathed, barely above a whisper.

“Indeed.”

They lay there, as still and silent as the drifts of snow-scape on the castle grounds. But instead of frozen, they were deliciously and unmistakably warm, save for the crown of their heads and the tips of their noses.

Draco squeezed her fingers gently. Nothing more happened, even though she wanted more. Much more that just the touch of his hand. They dozed for a bit. Then he walked her back to her practically empty dorm.

***

It was late. Hermione knew Draco was not in his room. She’d seen him walking to the Great Hall with one of the few seventh year Slytherins. There wouldn’t be much time. She didn’t really want to look into his diary. She didn’t want to find some evil scheme. Even more, she didn’t want to find that his feelings toward her weren’t genuine .

She murmured the password for the dungeon common room that Draco had shared with her. She went quickly to his sleeping chamber door. Open. _Goodness_ , she thought. _How much easier could this be?_

The key lay in the brass urn. The diary lay on its back in the desk. She easily unlocked it with a simple spell. Too simple. Shrugging, she flipped open the book and began to read.

 __  
**Hermione Granger has been less of a challenge than I’d have hoped. She gave in easily to my advances. It’s very nearly pathetic the way she melts beneath my touch. At the first thought of this mission, I was naturally appalled. But I’ve found she has a sweetness, an innocence, that I find truly intoxicating. Her mind is a marvel, as well, and I find I truly look forward to being with her more and more. I can no longer understand how a wizard cannot look beyond blood status to see the charms of a witch who may be born of Muggles.**  


__  
**It is becoming harder and harder to hold back in those times when I touch her, stroke her hair; kiss her velvety soft lips… It is hard for me to think she may be deceiving me, and yet I know she must be- even as I deceive her. Does she know? She must, and yet her physical response to me cannot be fabricated. Unless perhaps she is just that good at pretending—**  


“I was wondering if I’d find you here. And now I have my answer. In fact, many of my questions are now answered.”

It was Draco. He must have known she’d come here, to his room. He wanted to catch her here. He’d set her up.

Hermione slammed the diary shut and tried, too late, to hide it behind her. “I can explain,” she stammered. “I only wanted to borrow another book from you. When I knocked it was obvious you weren’t here, but I didn’t think you’d mind, since you didn’t bother to hide your key and all… so I helped myself.” She fumbled with the diary, trying to shove it back onto its shelf from behind her back.

“Isn’t it funny how lying becomes easier with practice? And of course you found my diary to be good reading, did you? Did you find what you had hoped?” The corner of his lip twitched. The coolness with which he spoke, and the icy, unconcerned manner with which he crossed over the threshold, had her more wary then if he’d barged in yelling and cursing.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.” He said it with little concern, as if it hardly mattered to him.

It frightened her, this lack of anger.

“What… what do you mean?” It was all she could think of— just keep up the sham.

He waved his hand. At once she couldn’t move. Panic flowed through her. She opened her mouth to protest, but found she couldn’t speak.

Draco smirked. “Come, come, Hermione. I know—have known— you’re working for Potter and his champions of the light. How dumb do you believe me to be?”

He laughed, clearly amused. “It was annoying at first, but then I began to enjoy watching your internal struggle—trying to put up with my… what did you chide me with?” He appeared thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, yes…my “elitist attitude’, isn’t that what you called it?”

For a moment she thought he was truly hurt by this. But then he strode toward her and he kissed the top of her head as if she were a child. “And then I came to admire you in a way. What you’ve been doing is very deceitful of you. Deceitful, indeed. I can appreciate that. I can appreciate your allegiance to a cause that asks you to do something distasteful, and you full on comply. And I don’t lie in my diary. If you read about my complicated feelings for you, it’s all true.”

He leaned closer. “Why should we be concerned with your side, my side? You and I, we’re complementary. I know you’ve been contemplating the same thing. Tell me, am I wrong?”

Hermione began to tremble. Not from fear, but the outright nearness of him. His long lanky body pressed against hers. She was unable to move, but was quite sure that even if she did possess the ability, she wouldn’t want to.

His chest pressed firmly against her breasts. His pelvis was flush with her stomach. _Dear god_ , she thought as the deliciousness of his scent enveloped her. What on earth was she going to do?

As if reading her mind, Draco asked, “So now whatever will you do?” He dipped his head, using his nose to brush past the lose curls at her temple. He pressed his lips to her cheek, to her jaw, her neck. “Speak,” his breath, hot and sumptuous on her neck, had uttered the word to release her voice.

“This is a terrible game, Draco. I think we should just stop. Please stop it.”

He snapped his head up. Hard, cold eyes met hers. “It’s a game that you began. Don’t deny you’ve been playing me all along. Admit it!”

She nodded.

“But you didn’t bet on getting played did you, when you started this little game.” Just as suddenly, his look softened. “And now I’ll finish it.” He hauled her body away from the wall, half carrying, half dragging her to his bed.

“You don’t have to do this,” she pleaded, as real fear began to seep into the high-pitch whinny of her voice. “Please don’t do this.”

“Really?” Draco sat her down, and stood before her. He slid his hand in his pocket, removing a beautiful silver pocket watch. He clicked it open and regarded the time. “In five minutes, I think you will have quite changed your tune.”

He leisurely set down the watch and removed his dress robes. “You know,” he commented lazily as he loosed his tie, “I find it fascinating how you began to want me so much despite this little charade. Even now, as I call out this ridiculous ruse you’ve kept up…” He placed his hands on either side of her thighs on the bed and knelt down, “… even now you still want me.”

Hermione averted her gaze, and only shook her head, as tears threatened at the brim of her eyes. She could feel herself becoming aroused—the heat soaking her panties, the puckering tautness of her nipples against the cotton of her bra.

“Now, there, there… don’t cry.” He cupped her chin as he had so many times over the months. It seemed a special endearment toward her. It unnerved her. “I’m not a monster," he breathed. "...and I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. I promise.”

Before she could protest he was kissing her. This time, no teasing. No relenting. This was pure, pent up passion fully released. It was consuming.

He spoke into her mouth through his forceful kisses, “I know you’ve wanted to wrap your arms around me.” He drew back and the edge of her lip, between his teeth, tugged slightly. “So do it now.”

At once she was free. She could feel her own power of movement flood her body. Yet she was still unable to move. Her heart rate surged. She could run. She could fight. But then again, she could not.

He gazed expectantly at her, but something small flickered behind his arrogance. Was it hope? How could that be so? She raised her hand, slowly at first, not even knowing herself what she would do. Then she rested it lightly against his cheek. His face was smooth and cool under her hot palm. Draco closed his eyes, inhaled and pressed his face further into her palm. He let his head fall back, exposing his neck and her eyes fell to the hollow of his throat. She watched his pulse thrum beneath his skin. Slowly, she came forward and pressed her mouth against the blue tinged artery under pale white skin. Warmth beneath her lips.

Her fingers were at the button of his shirt.

His hands were running up her thighs pushing at her heavy wool skirt.

She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, began to tug at his cotton undershirt.

He’d found the elastic of her stockings and pulled, taking her knickers with them.

She rose to aid him in her divesting, pulling his undershirt up over his head.

Together they fumbled with his trouser clasp and as it came apart she pushed them from his narrow hips.

He leaned toward her, one hand under her bottom, urging her forward, urging her to help him find the soft place inside her.

She gasped.

He groaned.

He’d entered her immediately, hot and solid, and filled her completely. She pulled him down hard atop her, wanting to feel the full of his weight.

He struggled against her force, holding himself motionless above her, up on his elbows.

Their eyes collided.

He bore into her in every way. He began to move. Slowly and by degrees. Only then did Hermione close her eyes. She closed her eyes because what she’d been wanting now for weeks was finally in her possession.

After, she’d fallen asleep. When she woke, tangled in his covers, he was there, smiling at her.

“Have you been watching me?” she asked

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Whatever for?”

“Truthfully, I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe what you've let me do to you... what we've done.... and that I’ve let you stay—I never let a girl stay.”

She punched him. “Ass!”

“You’ll get no denial from me on that point.” He gripped her fist, pulled her closer, rolling so she was partially beneath him.

“What now, then?” she asked.

“I failed my mission. You’ve failed yours. I guess we could just keep lying to everyone.”

She watched his mouth as he spoke. She wanted him to kiss her again. “You mean keep pretending to pretend we’re boyfriend-girlfriend?”

He shrugged as his eyebrows raised. “Why not? Why not do something just for us, instead of for everyone else? Will it even matter anymore?”

Hermione smiled. A sad smile, but it signaled her agreement. Then she kissed him. Because she wanted to.

***

Freezing. She was freezing after having stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, speaking, arguing rather, with Harry. It was one of a handful of times she’d met him to discuss her task of tailing Draco for the year. The new term was to start in only a couple days and Harry wanted to know if she’d sufficiently hoodwinked Draco, wanted to know if she had any idea of the Death Eater’s next move.

Now, this is where the arguing started. Hermione was, if anything, a survivor, and although she indeed had strong principles, she wasn’t going to be thrown in Azkaban, or worse— for a lost cause. She feared that Harry’s fight was just that. Besides, she knew Draco as Harry never could. Hermione had told Harry she was not giving up altogether, but was hoping for a compromise of sorts. She said that when Harry defeated Voldemort, they—the new generation—could change the future by being civil to one another.

It was then that she told him she was falling for Draco and he for her. She had said if that could happen, then surely they all could get along. Harry was furious. Livid. He told her to sort out her loyalties and until then he wouldn’t expect much from her. He’d then disappeared into the darkened trees.

Hermione walked morosely back towards the castle. As she came upon the walk along the North facing wall, she saw Draco leaning against the stone.

His arms were crossed before his chest, his deep black robes rippling in the wintry breeze. He looked slightly amused, maybe a little peeved. “Now this time, you had me fooled. You’re still tattling to Potter? After everything? I don’t know whether to be angry or impressed.”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe I argued with him? Told him we were together and if that could work, anything was possible.”

With this, Draco ginned broadly. “You told Potter about us? Excellent. I only wish I could’ve seen his face.” He nudged away from the building, walked to her, took her in his arms.

“You’re terrible,” she replied smiling back at him. “Oh, and immature.”

“Possibly both of those things and a much, much more…”

He leaned down to kiss her, but they both started at a loud crack.

Everything happened so quickly after that.

***

Hermione stood slowly, brushed off the snow that had collected on her woolen cloak.

She had heard the icicles crack loose from the castle, but never saw them. What she did see was Draco’s face looking skyward and then at her, even as he shoved her safely out of harms way. She must’ve hit her head against the icy pavers because that’s all she could remember.

 _How long have I been out?_ she wondered. Her hand touched a tender bump on the back of her head. She _had_ hit it. After Draco pushed her.

 _Draco._ As her wits came back to her she looked beyond the spot where she stood to see a heap of black robes being covered by the snow. She deduced Draco must have slipped when he pushed her, must’ve hit his head, as well.

“Draco?” she called out as she approached him. All around him lay long thin shards of icicles. She didn’t see the dark stain seeping through his heavy black cloak; not until she went to him, tried to rouse him, and the cloak fell open to reveal deep crimson, pooling brilliantly against his crisp white oxford.

“Draco!” she screamed. She tore open his shirt, preparing a healing-chant in her mind that very second.

The yawning gash was deep—gaping. A hole, straight through his heart. It was too late for healing spells. He was dead.

Hermione began to shudder violently, her hands covered with Draco’s still-warm blood. “No. No. No, no no!!!” She cradled his head in her hands, her cold, cold hands. She began to rock. A low ominous moan rumbled from her throat. She squeezed tight her eyes, shutting out the awful sight before her.

The irony was morbid, and not at all lost on her. Draco had been killed by an icicle—an arctic crystal through his heart—just when she had found herself to be his one warm spark.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Quidditchref, for betaing, YBG.


End file.
